The demise of an accent snob

The rain has held off, so the streets near our house were hissing with fallen leaves.  In some places, they had been ground to a fine powder by passing feet.

One late afternoon, I made my way in the fading golden light, past two small boys bagging glossy horse chestnuts with their dad.  I pushed on until I had the Strait of Juan de Fuca in view.  There was a mist below the setting sun (or a fire?). Across the strait, long puffy clumps of cloud were draped over the Olympic Mountains, which rose above a calm stretch of silver.  I felt tension in my face, and realized that I was grinning.

I turned and there were dozens of dogs, trotting, cavorting, and sniffing up and down the Dallas Road path, and I remembered how I'd dreamt of living here again -- and walking the Accent Snob by the sea. The feeling of longing and loss washed over me like a wave.

Some weeks ago, my cell phone rang as I walked younger daughter up Fort Street to the Dutch Bakery.

"It's today," elder daughter choked, standing in a veterinary examination in Hades. "I didn't think it would be today."

I did, I thought to myself, as younger daughter and I maneuvered a crosswalk.  I wasn't going to tell elder daughter that.  Apparently, the vet, on being told that the Accent Snob was having a good day, responded, "Oh, dear..."

Elder daughter needed to do the paperwork, so I told her that I was available when she needed me, and we rung off.  Younger daughter and I took our seats in the café, and I told her that the Accent Snob had come to the end of his eighteen-year-old life. 

The Accent Snob was still alive at that point, but I wasn't going to tell younger daughter that.

Younger daughter's eyes filled with tears, and she took out her compact mirror, repairing the damage, and weeping quietly.

Text from elder daughter:  "They've sedated him."  I waited, knowing it was only a manner of minutes.

When my phone rang again, elder daughter was on the floor beside our old roué, still wanting to scratch his ears.

With younger daughter crying quietly across the table, and elder daughter sobbing in my ear, there was no time for my own tears.  I told elder daughter how brave she'd been, and how well she had cared for the old boy in his two final years.

The next day, we engaged in that very twenty-first-century form of grieving - posting photos of the Accent Snob online, and receiving condolence messages, mostly referring to the Rainbow Bridge.  Elder daughter texted me that she'd made the mistake of Googling the term.  Curious, I did the same - even though I've been aware of the expression for years.

It turns out that it's from a "poem" (really a mini-essay set out like a poem) that's been around for about twenty to twenty-five years.  It's a bit on the precious side - be my guest and look it up - but in these days, when people refer to their animals as "furry children", it seems to strike a chord.

I am on record as being against comparing pets to children.  The Accent Snob was a dog, not my child.  We loved him dearly, but we put his food on the floor and took him outside to pee.

And anyway, aren't dogs colour-blind?  Maybe the Rainbow Bridge is a spectrum of smells, leading to a land beyond pain, fear, and skateboards, where the Accent Snob always has someone to play Tug-of-War with him, and he can eat all the pizza he likes.